


The Scent of Lilacs

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Brotherhood, Death, Gen, Magical Realism, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:09:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1778575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a death story. It is also a magic realism/surreal story. At least one character dies in the narration. It's possible that a whole lot of characters die, or have died, or will die in this story. If that uncertainty of phrasing bothers you, all i can say is that once you're out of time, then things get a bit timey-wimey. Eternity is shaped like a Moebius strip on acid.</p><p>Anyway. I had fun writing it, for a certain odd and lyric value of "fun." Hope some of you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Scent of Lilacs

He had fallen asleep, Sherlock thought. Fallen asleep under a lilac tree, lulled by the heavy hum of bees. He opened his eyes and looked up through the dense leaves of the tall shrub, seeing only patches of bright blue sky beyond. There was a soft wind stirring through the leaves, adding rustle and shush to the heady song of the workers that trundled busily from floret to floret. The purple blossoms bobbed and bounced.

It smelled like heaven. Not, he thought, that there was a heaven. But if there were, this was what it would smell like. Like green grass and ocean breakers somewhere near; like lilac and honey. Like a good dog warm from the sun.

He turned his head and was not surprised to see the big Irish setter looking back, brown eyes glowing, tongue hanging down.

One corner of his mouth turned up. “Good dog,” he said, softly. “Good Redbeard.”

Redbeard leaned in and licked him—once, twice, three times. Sherlock giggled and curled up, knobby knees in short trousers pulling close to his chest, head ducking down for shelter. “No, no, no, don’t lick me, no,” he giggled, as Redbeard tried to pry him from his hedgehog knot, snuffling in the rampant mane of brown curls, tongue laving every inch of skin he could find. Sherlock was wild with the joy of it, laughing, squirming, too-large feet flailing the air. He rolled, caught an arm over the dog’s back, dragged them both flat to the ground, tumbling out of the shade of the lilac into the bright sunlight.

He blinked, and looked around. The grass was even and well-tended, but not too recently mowed. It was dense with clover and [little wild daisy](https://www.google.com/search?q=bellis+perennis&espv=2&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=H32aU5qxGu3JsQSz14CQDQ&ved=0CAYQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=667#facrc=_&imgdii=_&imgrc=ok1yi-Oazc3_kM%253A%3BDIUiqa7GINChOM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fkeyserver.lucidcentral.org%252Fweeds%252Fdata%252F03030800-0b07-490a-8d04-0605030c0f01%252Fmedia%252FImages%252FBellis_perennis%252Fbellis%252520perennis6.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fkeyserver.lucidcentral.org%252Fweeds%252Fdata%252F03030800-0b07-490a-8d04-0605030c0f01%252Fmedia%252FHtml%252FBellis_perennis.htm%3B900%3B600) and dandelions, all pink and white and gold. The lawn rolled out what seemed like forever, running  downhill from a small white building in a glorious sweep until it dropped off into a hillside of wild heather. Below were cottages, and far, far below that was the ocean, as dark and brooding green-blue as labradorite, flecked all over with white breakers. There were ships out there. Beautiful ships… Sailing ships and steam ships and little motor boats. Fishing ships.

With a thrilled laugh Sherlock sat, then scrambled to his feet and ran down the slope, peering out into the vast distance. Redbeard loped beside him.

“It’s a pirate ship!” Sherlock shouted, waving in spite of the certainty he’d not be seen from here. “And look—a Viking ship! With a dragon’s head!”

Redbeared woofed.

Sherlock danced in place. His knobby knees rose and fell, his long, lanky legs jigged, his feet flashed up and down. He spread his arms wide and smiled up into the blue, blue sky. The clouds streamed overhead, galleons of silver, clipper ships of gold.

He heard a voice call his name, and spun in place.

Someone leaned out of the white cottage, waving. “Sherrrrrrrrrrr-lock!”

“What?”

“Your brother’s calling you!”

“Awwwwww. I don’t want to go.”

“You’ll be back,” she said, smiling. “He’s waiting for you.”

“Where?”

“In his place.”

He crossed his arms and scowled, though in truth it was more pretend than real. “Which one?”

“I don’t know. Probably the first one. It usually is.”

She had long brown hair and dark, smiling eyes. He ducked his head and looked at his toes, then looked up through the fringe of his lashes. “Will you come, too?”

“Not this time, Sherl. You know better. I’ll be here.”

He huffed and pushed out his lower lip, but she just laughed. “Get on with you, you berk. Sooner you reach him the sooner you can come home.”

“All right,” he huffed. “Can Redbeard come?”

“Get on with the two of you,” she said, grinning.

He smiled back, whistled for the dog, and loped up the hill—up the lawn, past the hives, along the side yard where Janine grew tomatoes under plastic, then up the drive and out onto the road.

“Which way, boy?” he asked the dog. “Find Mycroft, Redbeard. Find him!”

The big red dog gave a deep bay, then set out down the road at a lope, through the center aisle of the train north, into the city, along Pall Mall. He chased pigeons around the plaza in front of St. Paul’s.

Sherlock caught up, panting with the pleasure of the chase, and looked around. “Maybe,” he said, considering. “Maybe. Let’s look inside. Chapel of St. Michael and St. George. He could be there.” But the old chapel was empty. Sherlock walked up the aisle, quiet and tall, remembering the day.

“Best man twice over,” he said to Redbeard. “Two damned Best-Man speeches at the night-do. It really wasn’t fair.” He sighed, and looked down. He was, he saw, wearing his morning suit, and carrying the top hat tucked under his arm. His shoes gleamed. “How did a man like me end up having to write three Best-Man speeches in one life, hmmm? Outrageous, that’s what it was. Outrageous.” He popped the top hat onto his curls and grinned, then. “On the other hand—prevented a murder the first time, and the second time I stopped a terrorist attack and accepted a proposal. Still…”

He walked steadily up the marble way toward the altar, between the carved pews. His steps echoed in the empty space. He grabbed a strand of sunlight and wrapped it around his hand, tearing it free and tying it idly around Redbeard’s throat, a collar of gold against the russet fur.

 “No. He’s not here. Good guess, Redbeard, but he was only here once that mattered. Try again.”

He watched the dog stretch out, red against white marble, red against polished concrete, red against the dull, neutral carpet, down and down, into the dark office, with the odd lights that shone for no reason, stabbing the shadows. Hades, Sherlock had often thought—Hades, and his brother dark Pluto.

“I see him, boy. A trace,” Sherlock said, as he caught up with the dog. His Belstaff flared around his calves, and he knew when he was, now. _Baker Street days,_ he thought. _John is in the kitchen making tea, taking a break from the blog. Mary’s not yet arrived. Moriarty’s still just a name and a face, overshadowed by the realization John would die for me by the pool. Valiant, battle-mad John. I’m at the start of that story, now, aren’t I?_

He studied the shadow figure sitting at the desk, bent over a laptop, a faint frown on his brow. Sherlock’s brother’s fingers flew over the keys; the screens came and went too fast to reckon—but not as fast as his brother’s mind. Sherlock came closer. He skirted around the desk and squatted down by Mycroft’s chair, looking into the still, cold face. “You worked too hard, then, Mike.”

The man’s head rose. Mycroft frowned, and looked across the room. “Sherlock?”

“Are you calling me?” Sherlock said. “Is it time to go home, now?”

“Sherlock, is that you?” The older man stood and considered, tense, eyes studying every nook of the room, piercing the shadows.

Sherlock put out his hand, tried to touch his brother’s. “Mike? Is this the right when?”

His hand passed through, a ghost sliding through another ghost. Redbeard sighed, windily, padding up and trying to lick Mycroft’s hand. He had no more success.

“Not now, boy,” Sherlock said. “Not this when. Not this now. He was looking for me, here—always looking for me. But this isn’t the right when. It’s not _his_ place.”

“You’ve got to hurry, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, standing behind the desk, a shadow revealed—a presence manifesting. “You don’t want to be late. He has to take you home.”

“He’s not here. Where?”

“First places.”

“I can find my way home myself,” Sherlock growled. “I’ve done it a million times. I don’t _need_ him.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lestrade said, with a rueful grin. “He’s got to take you home. He’s waiting for you. Now, go, you stupid berk. Get it right.”

“Help me,” Sherlock said, “I was never any good at this.”

“We’ll help. We’re all here.”

“It’s late,” Sherlock grumbled.

It was late. The moon was barely a sickle, and the stars burned in the black of the sky, high above the forest. Redbeard moaned.

“Poland,” Sherlock said, frightened. “God. I nearly died in Poland.” He slipped along the game path, walking carefully in the supple, durable hiking shoes. The best—Mycroft had bought them, as MI6 was too damned cheap. He remembered sitting grumbling in the showroom of Profeet, as Mycroft spoke intensely with the commissioning agent. Mycroft had bemoaned the store's name, which he considered tawdry and too modern, but he’d insisted on getting the best footwear for the mission, and had concluded that for this purpose Profeet had been that “best.”

“I’m not going home to Mummy to explain I lost you for lack of a horseshoe nail,” Mycroft had growled, when Sherlock whined at the time it was taking. “Or more likely, through a cast-off nail stabbing you halfway through the mission.”

The shoes were dark and supple, with soles that resisted almost anything. Sherlock placed a foot carefully, moved forward, then took another step. He remembered this. Remembered praying their heat-reflective suits would keep them from being seen, even on infrared. His mask was hot and sweaty. He’d been remembering Redbeard, that night, wishing there was an afterlife, so if he died he’d be reunited with the old dog.

“Sherlock,” a voice husked. Mycroft…

“Here,” he whispered back.

“Do keep up.”

“Would you stop it? I’m not five,” Sherlock grumbled. “Someday it would be nice if you’d act as though I was over five.”

“I’ve made the same wish often,” Mycroft snipped. Even after a lifetime of shared spats, it took Sherlock a second to see the spin his brother had put on Sherlock’s own words. Before he could fire back, though, Mycroft murmured, mere inches from him. “Down. We’re only a yard from the hide. Jaworski will be coming by along the road in two hours.”

“Early.”

“She likes a run first thing. And she likes to run alone.”

“Stupid.”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

“It is stupid,” Sherlock said, expecting confirmation. “You could have trusted me to do this alone.”

“I prefer that you have backup.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“You’re the better shot,” Mycroft said. “You’ve got the better field skills. I’ve let you plan the majority of the mission.”

“But you didn’t let me go alone.”

“Consider me insurance, brother-mine.”

They crouched together in the hide. Sherlock assembled the long-range rifle. Mycroft checked his Glock—once, twice, three times.

 _I nearly died here,_ Sherlock remembered, even as his hands did what they had done, even as his eyes searched the running path on the other side of the river, even as he sighed when Mycroft said, “It’s a long shot. Are you sure we shouldn’t have found a closer position?”

“Mycroft, it’s fine.”

“The cover’s not as good as I’d like.”

“Would you stop fretting?”

“I worry.”

“You think?” Sherlock’s sarcasm dripped like honey.

 _Lilacs,_ he thought. _Lilacs filled with bees._ When had he added lilacs to his Mind Palace?

He was in his Mind Palace, wasn’t he?

He should not be able to become lost in his mind palace.

“What is the mission?” he said, then and now. Then it had been sarcasm. Now it’s entreaty. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

“Sherlock….”

“Yes, Sherlock,” a voice said, and Redbeard barked and barked and barked the danger. “What are we doing here in the dark, with the guns?” And Sherlock heard the trigger move. Heard it then; heard it now

“Bugger,” Mycroft swore, then launched himself, toppling the gunman, swarming up his body, protecting his brother. Sherlock was scrambling from his prone position, trying to join the fight when he heard the two shots. One. Two. The men slumped.

“Fuck, Mycroft,” Sherlock leaped forward, dragging his brother off the still body of the gunman. “Shit. Shit. You’re hit.”

“Nothing. It’s not lethal. He didn’t get to aim. Upper arm.” Mycroft was panting, though. Mtycroft hated pain. He bit his lips; his eyes seeped tears.

“We’ve got to go. Someone will have heard.”

“No one will have heard. Silencers. And we’re a long way from anyone. Search him. Find out who he is.”

Sherlock was shaking, the realization that the gunman had targeted him sinking in. “I nearly died.”

“He was stupid,” Mycroft said. “He had to talk. Just had to talk. Look for ID. Sherlock. Check his pockets.” He was doing what Mycroft did: quietly, sensibly fishing his first aid kit out of his belt pack, pulling out a compression bandage and soft cotton, preparing to bind his own wound.

“Let me help.”

“You can help by checking for ID, dammit,” Mycroft snarled, then barely held back a yelp as he cinched the bandage tightly over his wound. “I hate foot work. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

Sherlock loved it. Even as he rifled the Polish agent’s pockets, even as he collected his weapon and backup ammo, even as he thought about the gun leveled at his head, he loved it. Loved the adrenaline thrill of it. But even he was sensible.

“We should go.”

“No,” Mycroft said. “It’s less than an hour, now. She’ll be by. Make the shot. Then we leave.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll be fine. Just make the shot.”

Sherlock remembered. He’d made the shot. Mycroft had sat, silent, panting with the pain, until they’d confirmed the kill. Then they’d slipped silently down the game path, down into Sandomierz. Three name changes later they’d been home.  Now, though…

“Polish agent,” Sherlock said, tucking the ID into his own pockets. “Patryk.”

“Not an agent. Solo. Freelancer. Works alone.”

Sherlock forced himself to hold out his hand. “Now? Is it time to go home now, Mike?”

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft murmured, never taking his eyes from the trail behind Sherlock—guarding his brother’s back. “Take the shot. Then we leave.”

His hand passed through Mycroft’s shoulder, and he and Redbeared tumbled again—through time, through space.

“London,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” Lestrade said, beside him.

“When?”

Lestrade didn’t answer, but instead hunched and patted the big red setter, who appreciated the attention. “He’s a good dog,” Lestrade said, fingers deep in red fur. “Mike still loves him, you know.”

Sherlock huffed. But Lestrade was right. Otherwise Mike wouldn’t be trying to call him home. “He’s calling.”

“He’s calling.” Lestrade’s voice was tight, almost shaking. “You’ve got to reach him, Sherlock.”

“Why not you?”

“I don’t know.”

They looked out across the night cityscape. It was an ordinary enough street, though in a “good” neighborhood. Two men walked together. One—the shorter, though not by much—spoke, hands rising to describe what might have been a football play, or a moment of combat, or a particularly beautiful passage of a ballet, or…

The other, watching, paced quietly beside, neat and tidy, his umbrella swinging in even beat with his stride.

The first laughed, and made a gesture that seemed to indicate a man giving up—not in despair, but in admission that neither words nor gestures would suffice. He smiled at his companion.

The two men froze, staring into each others’ eyes. The taller man reached out, then, in a motion slow and silent and dark as midnight, and touched his friend’s cheek—softly, softly, black-gloved fingers tracing the line of a cheekbone. Then his hand dropped, his head dropped, and he turned away, walking as quietly as ever, the umbrella swinging, tick-tick-tick. The shorter man stood, unmoving, watching the taller man walk away from him. Then his head came up and he called, and loped down the path. One hand landed on the taller man’s shoulder.

The taller man turned, paused, and both hesitated. Then the shorter man put an arm around the taller man’s shoulder and pulled him close, and they stood together, frozen in time, forehead to forehead.

“Not now,” Sherlock said. “Another time, but not now.”

Lestrade wrapped his arms around himself and turned away. “No. Please. Not now,” he agreed.

“When?”

“You’d know, not me,” Lestrade said. “It’s you he’s calling. Go to when it worked. Go to where it all comes together.”

Sherlock turned away. His short trousers fluttered against thin thighs. Socks fell around his ankles over sensible shoes. Lestrade looked so tall.

“I’m going to love you when I grow up,” he told the older man. “I’ll love you so much I’ll die for you.”

“I know, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. But he’d turned to look back on the two men standing together, head to head, on a London street at night. “I’ll love you, too.”

And Sherlock knew he would—he’d just love another more. Not that Sherlock could resent it. Not any more. He’d loved others more, too.

He whistled for Redbeard. “Home. We’ve got to go home. Mycroft’s calling us.”

The dog grinned and spun, recognizing the name.

Sherlock tended to forget the dog had been the family dog, as beloved by Mycroft in his own, quiet way, as by Sherlock.

“Find him, boy. Find him….”

“Need company?”

Sherlock looked over and John was there, grinning that devil-may-care grin.

“Always,” Sherlock said, looking down into his face. The Belstaff flapped wildly in the wind, and Redbeard bayed, hunting. “We’ll have to run fast. We’re running out of time.”

“When have we ever not been?” John asked, and they were off and running through the streets of London, the pavement wet and gleaming with the shop lights and the street lights and the headlights of cars. Light everywhere, and shadow, and they galloped over the rooftops and leaped from fire escape to skip-top to alley, clambered over fences, pounded along. Sherlock barely noticed when Mary joined them and the music changed to a waltz for three.

“Sherlock, Mike’s calling for you,” said the woman in the little white cottage at the edge of the downs. Lilac and bees, Sherlock thought. If heaven existed it would smell like that. Lilac and bees and the wide, wide ocean, and the wide, wide downs, and Janine making tea for Molly as the two laughed in the kitchen and the smell of saffron cake hot from the oven rolled out.

“No,” said Mary, sharply, as Sherlock turned toward the house and the woman and the lilac tree filled with bees. “No. Mycroft is calling you. It’s time to go home.”

“This isn’t my Mind Palace, is it?” Sherlock said.

“Depends on how you reckon,” John replied, still running, sturdy and strong and valiant and beloved.

“ _You_ call me,” Sherlock said.

“No. _Mycroft’s_ calling you. You have to answer him.”

“But he’s not home,” Sherlock said, dreaming of Baker Street, dreaming of Sussex. “He’s not _my_ home.”

“Run, it’s getting late,” Mary said, and in the impossible way of dreams she kissed him, without breaking her stride or pausing so much as a second. “Run, love. He’s waiting to bring you home. He won’t leave until he finds you.”

Then John pulled him close, the way he had on the day of John’s wedding, and hugged him. “Remember. You’re my best man. Always. I love you, you prat.”

Sherlock held him tight, and then tighter, tears rising up. “You, too. Forever. My best friend.”

“Find him,” John called. “He’s calling you home.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Another time, maybe. Or maybe you call me. But now, it’s Mycroft. Go find him…”

Sherlock bowed over his friend, then looked up at Mary.

“Keep him in trouble.”

“I will,” she said, gently. “Until you come home.”

The Belstaff was gone again, he was back in short trousers again, his legs long and thin, his feet too big, and he heard it at last.

“Sheerrrrrrrrrrrrr-lock!”

The sound was faint on the wind, and sweet, and it broke in the middle. Sherlock knew it—Mycroft at just the age for his voice to be changing. Sherlock and Redbeard were running down the path that led to the stream. That ran through the spinney south of the house. That ran under the hill with the thicket of oak at the top. He could see Mycroft there, his silhouette dark in the thicket, in his place--as a boy, as a man, when he'd lived there after Mummy and Father had passed. He called again...

“Sheeeerrrrrrrrrr-lock! Time to come home!  Where are you?”

There was a trace of panic in Mycroft’s voice, as there had so often been. Sherlock was the best at getting lost…

Fortunately Mycroft had always been the best at finding him.

“Mike! I’m here! Down by the stream!”

He heard his older brother, then, pounding pell-mell through the underbrush, panting.

“You always did hate footwork,” Sherlock said, tall once more and grown, looking down into the hot, red, worried face of the boy who’d hurried up. “I led you a merry chase, though, didn’t I, Mike?”

“Sherlock?” Mike’s face was round and covered in speckles like a mistle thrush’s egg.

Sherlock opened the edge of the Belstaff and pulled his brother in, feeling arms clutch him tight around the waist. “You know I am.”

“I couldn’t find you. It’s time to go home.”

“I wasn’t there in time.”

“I lost you.”

“Never.” Sherlock cradled him close. “Time will bend before I lose you, brother-mine.”

“I couldn’t go without you.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll find my own way home. Trust me.” Together they walked up the road, and Sherlock said, softly, “They’re waiting for you.”

“Who?”

There was barking up the road. Barking and barking, then Redbeard raced toward them, ears flying, tongue flapping as he grinned. He was matched by a little Welsh spaniel who ran and ran, laughing, and behind them, just cresting the hill, was a tall man with silver hair.

“They’re here already, Mike. They’ll walk you home.”

Mycroft stepped away, tall and graceful, poised, in his glory. The sun shone off red hair, and he raised a hand in greeting, then turned.

“Which of us has died, Sherlock? Did you come for me? I thought I was coming for you.”

“Does it matter?”

“I…”

“Idiot. What does it matter, once we’re outside time?”

“Existential mumbo-jumbo,” Mcyroft grumbled. “Total poppycock.”

“And you’re quite delighted with it, aren’t you?” Sherlock said, smiling. But his brother was already gone, up the road, to stand forehead to forehead with the other man as the dogs danced around them in the fading sun.

“Time to go home, then, isn’t it, Redbeard?” Sherlock said, and put on his peacoat, and went down the walk to the white cottage where he could hear Janine and Molly laughing. He could see John and Mary walking up the road with all the children, all of them laughing, John ruffling young Mike’s dark hair. Sherlock waved, and they waved back… And somewhere, some when, his brother walked into the warm kitchen with Lestrade at his side, and said, “I’ve got a case for you, brother-mine.”

And a violin sang in Baker Street, and the lilacs drew in bees from a thousand miles away to tell Sherlock all that the world was up to.

If heaven existed, he thought, it would smell like this.

And somewhere the machines stopped breathing, and somewhere someone’s brother died. But it really didn’t matter which one, or when, or why, because once you’re out of time you’re into eternity.

  
“It better be an interesting case,” Sherlock said, and laughed when Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother. “Come on in and tell me about it before you and Graham head home…”


End file.
